


Fennec's Two

by ice_hot_13



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:41:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28212615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ice_hot_13/pseuds/ice_hot_13
Summary: They are very different from each other, Fenenc’s two. She’s never known what to call them. They belong to each other, in a bone-deep way that warms her to see; the way they look at each other, longing even after they found each other, needy though they have each other. But alongside this, or maybe beneath it, a foundation that keeps them steady, they’re both hers.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Boba Fett, Din Djarin/Boba Fett/Fennec Shand
Comments: 30
Kudos: 237





	Fennec's Two

They are very different from each other, Fenenc’s two. She’s never known what to call them. They belong to each other, in a bone-deep way that warms her to see; the way they look at each other, longing even after they found each other, needy though they _have_ each other. But alongside this, or maybe beneath it, a foundation that keeps them steady, they’re both hers.

Boba was first. This legend who saved her looked at her like he’d never managed to save himself, and was hoping she would return the favor. She joins him mid-disintegration; he’s been falling apart for years, is forever hurting and forever losing, a lovely face the galaxy has seen hundreds of times before but never like this.

 _I’m nothing,_ he said, beneath the three moons of Tatooine, _I’m no one’s._ And then, bitterly, quietly, _I’m theirs._ She knew without having to ask, that he’s felt owned by the faceless who created him as one of many, owned by his own beginnings.

 _Not anymore,_ she said, lifted her chin and looked at him straight on, unwavering, _you’re mine._

He’s come to her easily, ever since the beginning. This legend who has never felt like anything but a clone, hard and hurt and harsh, he has a willingness to be saved that, after all this time, leaves her believing in a cosmic forgiveness. The galaxy may have been cruel enough to make him a clone randomly chosen to be a son, but it left him this. He can be forgiven for his crimes, the galaxy can be forgiven for its own, because Boba is desperate to be saved.

Figuring out what he wants is a whittling process, searching for a fine form within a block of marble. He looks at her like there are no wrong answers, but then she will create a perfect curve, a lovely shape, and she’ll see the greater image living beneath the hard edges. It emerges slowly, coaxed by her hands, guided by when his moans turn to whimpers, when he shakes and when he surrenders. There are no wrong answers, but there are some that sing their rightness.

He wants to be claimed; he wants to be honored. He wants to feel like he’s something to be wanted, and that he belongs wholly to himself. He wants to be good. She tells him, harshly so it can reach his ears, _you are mine,_ and his body arches to meet her in agreement. She pushes and she takes, and then she lets him tell her what he wants. _There, there,_ he’ll gasp, and she gives him what he wants and tells him he deserves it, for being good, for being perfect and good and for _telling_ her what he wants, for believing he deserves it.

 _Tell me what you want,_ she demands, and her heart floods with warmth the first time he asks unprompted. It’s shy, it’s tentative, but it’s _please, I need it,_ and she didn’t have to ask first. The first time, she rewards him abundantly, showers him with praise. _So good,_ she reminds him, and she fucks him until his cries are loud and rapturous, _you deserve this._

That he looks at Din and only momentarily wonders if he could ever deserve something so lovely – she preens, proud of him, and later, she praises him.

Din is softer, sweeter, and so much more difficult.

He needs it; she can see that, even if he can’t yet, burning beneath his skin. He is stillness and quietness, he is holding himself together in silence, she has never seen his face but she comes to study the tilt of his head and the set of his shoulders like an art form.

He is wrecking Boba, and the guilt enshrouds him. He is more than Boba can handle alone, and she can see the urge to pull away in the curl of his shoulders, how he reaches for Boba and then recedes, a tide ruled by a distant moon, wanting desperately to flood the shore. When he breaks his creed, he comes back broken, he falls to pieces and Boba watches.

 _Can’t you,_ he asks Fennec, and she shakes her head. Din will come to her; he is a lost thing, and he must be found. Where Boba waits, Din hides.

He runs, further and further, drags himself along as he falls apart, and still, she forces herself to wait. He is a slowly materializing shape, he is mist and not marble. If she looks too closely, he’ll fade away. There are moments she almost mistakes for the right one, and is left breathing a sigh of relief when she lets the moment pass untouched, and sees he wasn’t ready.

Din knows, what she does with Boba. Somehow, he understands without being told, without seeing for himself; she thinks it’s because he sees the way Boba is afterwards, how he’s relaxed and unwound, that he recognizes a missing piece in his image of Boba, sees a solution easily because it’s one that would slot into his own broken place. His attention lingers for longer, he fidgets anxiously with his hands and hunches his shoulders like he’s been caught, and she knows he’s thinking about it. She sees the set of his shoulders, sees him telling himself he doesn’t need anything, sees him squirming away from his own wondering. When Boba comes to her looking helpless, she knows Din is needing something he can’t give, knows he’s been loving and soft and that Din is slipping through his fingers despite it. The proximity is making Din fray apart, the promise of something he won’t allow himself, he’s aching for something that could he his and turns helpless eyes to Boba though it’s not something he can provide.

The first time she sees Din’s face, his eyes shine with unshed tears and he has lost everything. He looks at her like he hopes she remembers enough of him to coax him back into being. She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t give him anything; she walks away, and he follows. If he were Boba, she would coax _come here, it’s alright,_ but Din, she knows, needs to be given the choice, needs to deliver himself through. His fingerprints need to be on his own remaking.

Din is tearful and trembling, and first, she gives him what he thinks he wants, to show that he doesn’t. He thinks he wants to be punished, and so this is how she must start; her voice is stern and she tells him _on your hands and knees,_ and _spread your legs,_ tells him _don’t touch yourself,_ this as much as she will allow him to punish himself. He’s wild with the need to suffer for sins he hasn’t committed; he shakes and pushes his hips back impatiently towards and his hands are tight in the sheets.

She goes slowly; slow, languid, soft, and he trembles. _Harder,_ he insists, voice hoarse, breaking, _please, please, harder._

She tells him no. If he were Boba, her voice would be firmer. To Din, sweet, suffering Din, she croons, whispers, murmurs _no, my sweet boy, no._ He cries. She fucks him slow and gentle and he sobs; he could come without being touched, but she reaches for him anyways, gives him slick, slow, relentless strokes that make him collapse towards the mattress, thighs shaking, face buried in his arms. His whimpers are fragile and grateful, and he weeps like he doesn’t know how to achieve what is already there for him to take.

Afterwards, Boba does not need anything from her. His comfort lies in the beginning, in the offering; she’s known from the moment she first touched Din that he needs to be taken all the way through. He comes with a sob and then she urges him onto his back, reaches for him again. His whimper is high and pleading, and his hips arch off the bed.

 _I can’t,_ he sobs, though he needs to, keeps pressing his hips up, heels pushing into the bed. It’s only when he’s thoroughly exhausted that he lets go; his sobs fade to whimpers, and then he sleeps more soundly than she’s ever seen, a burden lifted from his shoulders, gentleness pressed into his hands.

They are very different from each other, her two. Her legend who craves redemption, her fallen warrior who thinks he craves perdition. She doesn’t give them what they want; she gives them what they need.


End file.
